


A Cloak of Shadows and Sleep

by MythopoeticReality



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 15:24:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12135378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MythopoeticReality/pseuds/MythopoeticReality
Summary: Her father put her away, hoping that she would stay put and stay safe. Lúthien has other plans.





	A Cloak of Shadows and Sleep

The first night she allowed herself to feel bitterness. Towards her father, towards Daeron, towards her own too trusting heart and the heights that Hírilorn rose to and how inescapable her prison seemed to be. She stood beside the window, moonlight stealing through the great birch’s branches and falling over her face in shadow-laced bars.  The ladders thunked and dragged, wood against wood, as they were pulled away. She watched as they bobbed off into the night, bleached and silent beneath the stars, shrinking off into the distance until they were finally lost in the surrounding forest. The trees stretched out all around her, their tops only visible, the wide sea of their dark leaves shifting and blowing in the wind. She released a long sigh, her eyes drawing shut as she bowed her head. Upon the window sill her hand curled up into a fist. A moment passed. And then she turned away, moving off in silence, further into the house.

* * *

They’d given her every entertainment she could have hoped for. Shelves of books that lined the walls. Rainbows of paints and chalks and charcoals. Lutes and harps and flutes for her to fill the silence with. They did not wish her to be  _unhappy,_ after all. Her Father had only put her up her for her own  _protection_ , to keep her here until she had regained her sense and realized that to follow after Beren into his Doom was a foolhardy task. That she would be risking her life over a fleeting,  _unworthy_ life and feelings that would soon pass.

They’d given her threads and yarns and wool, a spinning wheel and a loom. On the second night, the plan began to emerge in her mind.

* * *

Her father thought she would see the light, turn to sense  _eventually_. She did not think he intended to keep her up here forever, only that he was convinced he was right. Her father  _always_ was convinced he was right, stubborn man. But then, she could be just as stubborn herself if she wished, She was very much her father’s daughter in that aspect.

They did not give her enough wool to make a rope. She expected as much, neither her father nor his men were  _stupid_  – ah, well usually.  But they overlooked one important aspect: She was her mother’s daughter too.  Her mother, Melian, a Maia of the West. Her mother, for whom all of Valinor fell into silent listening when she sang, her voice had such power.  Her mother, who had taught her songs to make the bids sing and the flowers grow and bloom and far more besides.

In her bedroom there was a stool and a vanity, a silver-framed mirror and a silver handled brush.  Lúthien took a seat before the mirror and took the brush in her hand. There was a moment where she looked back at her own reflection, her eyes like steel. Her lips pursed and she nodded to herself. As she brushed her hair she began to sing. That was the third night, and that was when her work began.

* * *

She couldn’t say how much time passed afterwards. Day bled into night which became day again as she brushed and she sang and her hair grew. Down her back, to her knees, falling to the floor, twisting and curling around her feet. Dark shadowy strands that snaked and twisted around  her body. Her voice began to crack and her throat felt dry, but she sang on. The weight of her hair pulled at her neck and her shoulders as she became lost in it’s cocoon, she sang on. The passing days began to weigh on the lids of her eyes, and the surface of the vanity itself called to her, promising her rest, if only for a few moments, Just lay her head down, just close her eyes…

She sang on.

She sang of growth and the strength to carry her down to the earth once more. She sang of things unseen and the shadows she would sink into, the very shadows that lived in and colored her hair. She sang of her own weariness, capturing and trapping her own desire to sleep and weaving into her song a spell of sleep  who’s binds. legends would later say, even Morgoth himself would not be able to escape from.  

She cold no longer sit upright when all was done, dragged to her knees by weariness and weight. She reached up, clawing at the curtain before her eyes until she could see, and searched until she found a pair of sheers with which to cut her hair off with. When she was finished, she rested.

* * *

In the next nights she wove and braided, stitched and snipped. She made a cloth of her hair, which shone like a fine dark silk, and with that cloth she made a cloak. Something to hide her from unfriendly eyes and to allow her an escape if others got to near, as they fell into a deep and irresistible sleep. She wove a rope, long enough to reach Hírilorn’s roots. It swung and circled outside of her window as she lowered it to the ground, enmeshing the guards watching her prison in her enchantment. Without a sound, they all fell to the ground, collapsing into their dreams.  Lúthien slipped down the rope, her cloak wrapped around her, and slipped off into the shadows of the forest. On that last night, she made her escape.


End file.
